Behind him Akor Sok hissed and moaned about their reception.
‘Control yourself,’ Kiry said.
‘But—’
‘We are the one clothed man who is inevitably shunned by the naked mob. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Take your seat and wait for me.’
Kiry smiled at an Englishman, one of those officials who met him frequently in private but refused to shake his hand before witnesses. The Englishman bared his teeth like he was a dog then looked around to make sure his peers had noted his display of loathing.
Kiry gazed intently at Wang Jen-chung from the Chinese foreign ministry. He considered standing in front of Wang until he acknowledged him. After all, they had shared food and showed each other their family snapshots more than once. But then he decided that Wang, who was suddenly fascinated by his brogues, was only following orders. Instead, Kiry caught the eye of a Romanian fellow who had once said to Kiry, admittedly under the influence of vodka, ‘You’re just about the most impressive men I’ve ever met.’ Today the Romanian shook Kiry’s hand and said hello but declined to stop and chat.
Next Kiry entrapped General Tran Quang Hai from Vietnam in a staring competition. Eventually Kiry blinked and nodded his head in defeat. But he had played to lose. He hadn’t found the general to be at all frightening. He was podgy and what teeth remained in his mouth were green. He squirmed and itched like a child in his business suit.
Then Kiry attached himself to a circle of delegates. He stood by as the Singaporean head of a Christian aid agency shook hands with the New Zealand minister for defence and international development, who squeezed the shoulder of the leader of the Mozambique delegation (‘As if they have money to spare us,’ Kiry thought) who offered to show the deputy director of the WHO the sights of Maputo when she was next in town. ‘Yes, you must go. It’s a fine city,’ Kiry said. ‘Make sure you visit the Bazaar Central. And the Museum of the Revolution is an absolute must.’ The circle splintered, leaving Kiry standing alone.
The organisers placed Kiry next to Prince Ranariddh, Sihanouk’s son, who sat next to Hun Sen who sat next to Son Sann of the KPNLF. The leaders all embraced. And Kiry raced across in front of the lectern to genuflect with such gusto before Sihanouk that even Sihanouk knew that Kiry was making fun of him.
The Japanese minister for overseas aid, Hiroshi Yamaguchi, beckoned Kiry to come to him. Kiry nodded, then turned and spoke to Akor Sok for a full minute before he approached Yamaguchi, who set about politely haranguing him.
‘Please think hard about the merits of giving up your weapons. This is the only way for you now, I repeat, the only way.’
‘Can you guarantee me that the Paris Agreements will be fully implemented by all parties? Fully implemented, do you understand? Because you know as well as I do that this is not yet the case.’
‘This is a marvellous occasion for you to atone. To rehabilitate.’
‘Atonement is irrelevant. I am about justice.’
‘Please: might I announce that the Khmer Rouge have agreed to disarm? It would set a wonderful example for the remainder of the conference.’
‘You may report what a fine city I think Tokyo is. Beyond that, what you ask is impossible.’
Yamaguchi sighed. He turned and walked to the podium and stood waiting for the room to settle and for Kiry to take his seat. Then he began to speak.
‘This is a golden chance for all of us to do something concrete rather than to talk vaguely about a better future for Cambodia. Cambodians have suffered egregiously for many decades ... but especially in the mid to late 1970s. It is time for the international community to do what it can to help fix these problems. Today we talk of practical responses: the challenge of effective health programs, clean water, the eradication of land mines, the development of essential infrastructure. But as we all know, one of the Cambodian parties still refuses to comply with the disarmament timetable. That same party is not allowing UN personnel to access areas of land still under its control. Let none of us forget what is at stake here on a day when I ask the global community to affirm its commitment to Cambodia.’
Kiry leant past Ranariddh. ‘What’s the Japanese word for egregious?’ he whispered in Son Sann’s ear.
‘I think it’s daisoreta, but don’t quote me on that.’
‘I never do,’ Kiry said.
‘Stop playing around,’ Prince Ranariddh hissed.
‘Please don’t concern yourself, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said. ‘We are four partners in peace sharing a joke. Surely that is good for business.’
‘It’s all very well for you, but after the election I expect to be prime minister.’
A hint of a smile appeared on Hun Sen’s lips. He folded his hands neatly in his lap. Kiry took note.
‘I grant you,’ Kiry said, ‘that a road built by Japanese engineers, with all the extra business for that new Australian brewery and for the brothels, is better than no road. Fine. Good. But Your Majesty, today is cosmetic. First the French, then the Americans, then the Russians, then the Vietnamese butchered us. Now they gang up to taunt us, while claiming they are helping us. We four sit here for their benefit; do not fool yourself that it is the other way around. In a few years’ time, when our economy is still shambolic and our people are still impoverished, these people will tell us it is all our own fault because they gave us peace and, what’s more, one day in Tokyo they gave us a great big pile of money.’
Ranariddh fidgeted. Son Sann’s eyelids flickered – the stuffy room and his arthritis medicine were making him drowsy. Hun Sen licked the faint smile from his lips and assumed a neutral gaze. He looked like a schoolboy, Kiry thought: innocent and eager to learn. But he was as hard as a diamond.
‘You want Cambodia to be like France or like America, Your Majesty?’ Kiry said. ‘That is impossible, I tell you, because the West has built its glory on the systematic abuse of the rest of us.’
‘But still, today is a day for getting what we can,’ Ranariddh said. ‘Today we are in a shopping arcade with another man’s Visa card. And we will get a great deal more for a great deal less if you tell them what they want to hear.’
‘You may well be right, Your Majesty,’ Kiry said.
As speeches came and went, as grand promises and fine intentions heavied the air, Kiry imagined that a cloud might form up in the ceiling, amongst the lights hanging from silver threads, and that a thunderstorm might wash all the hypocrisy away. Build new roads, someone said ... so Thai trucks can import vegetables, Kiry thought. Rehabilitate the agricultural infrastructure ... plant more rice. Take note of this malaria-modelling software ... some laboratory in Oxford wants its research funding doubled. Contribute to the easing of the global epidemic of anti-personnel ordnances ... there are already so many landmines in the ground that manufacturers are being forced into stockpiling: dig ’em up so we can plant some more. Improve sanitation infrastructure and engage in educational programs ... Cambodians shit into holes and wipe their arses with their hands and then wonder why they get sick. Improve basic literacy ... children should be able to read all about the meritorious work of the United Nations. Kiry sat seething, outwardly calm.
After lunch, a nuggety American man rose to speak. Franklin Faludi was a deputy to the deputy secretary of state, which Kiry supposed made him the most important – and definitely the loudest – person in the room.
Faludi began his speech by making what Kiry considered a spurious connection between literacy and nutrition and democratic change. He made no mention, Kiry noted, of blanket bombing or of the crimes of the CIA or of napalm. Then Deputy Deputy Faludi paused for effect, folded his prepared speech into a square and jammed it into his inside coat pocket.
‘The time for airy-fairy chat is over. We all know that we are here today to repair the damage – to infrastructure, of course, but more so to the very fabric and to the collective psyche – inflicted upon the Cambodian people by the past genocidal behaviour of the Khmer Rouge, that same group who today do most to obstruct our e
fforts to bring a lasting and comprehensive peace to this country.’
‘I’m all in favour of exuberant fundraising, but this is too much,’ Kiry whispered.
‘Don’t do anything rash,’ Prince Ranariddh said.
Kiry let out a full-throttled yawn. He swivelled in his chair. ‘It’s true what people say,’ he told Sok loudly. ‘Americans do make the best evangelists.’
After Faludi finished, Sihanouk rose to speak. Emboldened by the American, his whole body was so energised that his movements became jerky. His face shone: too much moisturiser, Kiry thought. From time to time he’d been guilty of the same crime himself (he knew he’d done it whenever Akor Sok came at him brandishing a damp towel).
‘I love my beautiful, beautiful children, all eight million of them. And they love Sihanouk back, every single one of them. They have deep faith in his capacity to fulfil their every need, to keep them safe and warm. It is this love that keeps Sihanouk virile and keeps him searching for a peaceful and prosperous outcome to my country’s woes. So let us face facts: it is impossible for us to meet the various demands of the Khmer Rouge. It is ridiculous for us to try to accommodate them because they hate peace. Mr Pol Pot, via his puppet-men, tells all of us – from the mighty United Nations of America to tiny insignificant Sihanouk – that we must do this, do that, climb a mountain, dig a hole, fly to the moon on an elephant. We try our hardest because we decide that we need Mr Pol Pot and his friends to achieve peace. Tee hee, can you imagine the irony? But all we want is peace so we say, “Thank you, Mr Pol Pot, we agree with everything you say. What a decent fellow you are. Handsome too.” Then Mr Pol Pot’s slaves put a screen in front of his mouth so he can laugh at us. And then he thinks up a new set of rules so he can accuse us of not keeping our promises. Don’t misunderstand me: Sihanouk barely knows Mr Saloth Sar, who you know as Mr Pol Pot. But Sihanouk knows how Mr Pol Pot’s people – his immaculately dressed lackeys – behave. Sihanouk has seen all this before and he doubts that we will ever be able to fix their bad behaviour because they cannot change and they do not want to change. They will talk sweetly and when that doesn’t work they will start the killing all over again.’
The next morning Nhem Kiry woke at dawn and quickly packed. In a soft towelling dressing gown and with a plunger of sludgy coffee by his side, he shredded a dozen or so documents. He made a few phone calls, showered, dressed and waited.
Around 7.30 a.m., one of the conference organisers rang to speak to Kiry about seating arrangements. Kiry had Ol tell the organiser that he was busy speaking to Boutros Boutros-Ghali on another line.
At 8 a.m., Hiroshi Yamaguchi arrived in the hotel lobby for a pre-arranged meeting to try to broker a deal with Kiry about disarmament. Kiry sent Akor Sok down to tell him Kiry had slept in.
At 8.40 a.m., Kiry gathered his aides and his luggage and left his room. The entourage walked slowly through the lobby, Kiry ahead of the others, relaxed, arms clasped behind his back. He might have been looking for a soft patch of grass onto which to throw a picnic rug.
He paused when he saw Akor Sok sitting with Yamaguchi. When he had both men’s attention he nodded once to Sok, who stood, shook hands with Yamaguchi and handed him a press release which was headed ‘Nhem Kiry Rejects False UN “Peace” Plan.’
By 11 a.m. Kiry sat in the first-class section of a Qantas jumbo. Waiting for the rest of the plane to board, he sipped iced water and chewed Juicy Fruit gum: he was a little worried about his ears, which had been playing up recently, and not only when he flew. Some nights, while he slept, a thin stream of watery wax ran down his jaw and stained his pillow.
When Kiry had signed the Comprehensive Settlement – with a commemorative gold Parker pen that he gave to Ol, who carried it everywhere, even after it leaked and left an ugly blue stain on his favourite shirt – he had dared to imagine himself minister for foreign affairs in a coalition government. And then, one day – after Prince Ranariddh had tried and failed, after Hun Sen had crashed and burned – maybe even prime minister. But now? Now he was fleeing to the jungle as if it was 1967 all over again.
* * *
One damp afternoon in June, Lea drove Ted to the Cabbage & Slug, a traditional English theme pub that sat in an alley off North Terrace in the city centre. As she held the heavy wooden doors open for Ted, he recoiled, horrified, at the interior: imitation wood panelling, plush red carpet designed to hide ale stains and the blood of soccer hooligans, a framed copy of an eighteenth-century map of Lincolnshire, a red telephone box complete with an ‘Out of Order’ sign, and a portrait of W.G. Grace above the fake fireplace.
‘What’s this, Disneyland-on-Avon? Can’t we go to a real pub?’
‘It’s got twenty-seven beers on tap,’ Lea said. ‘And my friends from the newspaper come here sometimes. They’re all dying to meet you. Especially Tim.’
‘I thought your boy’s name was Randy.’
‘Ralph, not Randy. And he’s a man, not a boy. Tim’s a colleague.’
‘A colleague, eh? Is he a man or a boy?’
‘He’s a journalist.’
‘I already don’t trust him.’
‘Well, I told him we’d be here. He said he’d try to drop in.’
Lea had chosen the Cabbage & Slug carefully. It had leather couches, firm yet springy. It had a disabled toilet at ground level. Although it was raucous at night, it was quiet in the afternoons, which, to Ted’s dismay, he found he desperately needed. And it had a publican called Marcia, a shapely fiftyish brunette. Marcia inspired Ted to perch on top of a barstool, in contravention of several medical directives, so he could learn the art of pouring a perfect Guinness while simultaneously staring into her green-black eyes and then down her low-slung white tanktop.
‘You know what?’ Ted said to Lea, trying to ignore the deer-head trophy that kept watch over them. ‘I don’t think I’ve enjoyed a beer in my whole life as much as this one.’
‘Terrific. Now how are your memoirs going? How about showing me some of what you’ve written?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Not right now.’
‘That’s what you said last time. You’ve got writer’s block, haven’t you?’
‘Certainly not. I’ve never had writer’s block in my whole life. I don’t believe in it.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘As if I’d lie to my own granddaughter. My own flesh and blood.’
‘You know what you should do?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘You should write whatever you want. If no one wants to publish it, that’s their problem.’
‘Enough: I’m writing the truth. The bloody awful truth, which is precisely the reason why you’re the last person I want to see it. We’re getting on so well and I’d like to keep it that way. I suggest you wait to read it until I’m dead.’
‘But I can help you. I could ask you questions and that might help you remember things.’
‘Remembering things is not my problem, love. I wish it was.’ Ted sipped his beer and smacked his lips. ‘Your dad wants me to talk to you about going back to law school next year. He’s got it in his head that I might wield some influence.’
‘Once I’ve got this “ridiculous photography diversion” out of my system?’
‘I think that’s the expression he used, yes. So let’s agree that I lectured you severely but unsuccessfully for, say, half an hour. Sound okay?’
‘Fine. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook. I want to see your memoirs.’
‘I’m too busy right now.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Getting myself another drink.’
‘You’ve hardly touched that one.’
‘It takes forever to pour a Guinness. Trust me, I’ve seen it done.’
‘It’s a pity that you didn’t know me when I was a baby.’
Ted reared back. ‘Well, I’m truly sorry, love, but … Are you upset about that? You’re not, are you? I chose to live a certain sort of l
ife and there’s no point getting all soppy about it now. Move on, girl, that’s my advice.’
‘It’s not that. I was just thinking of the women you could have pulled if you’d had me to carry around as a baby.’
‘Pulled? What do you mean, pulled? Pulled? I never would have used you in that way.’
‘If you’d been around at all, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I was a cute baby.’
‘I’ve seen the photographs. You were somewhat cute.’
‘Maybe you should get a puppy.’
‘I don’t think the nursing home would be too impressed.’
‘For the pulling power. And I read somewhere that old people—’
‘Careful.’
‘I read that old people find pets to be excellent therapy.’
‘I don’t need therapy. I’m not a bloody nutcase.’
‘Don’t try and wriggle your way out of it, Grandpa. You’re disassociating yourself from those aspects of your past that embarrass you. It’s not healthy.’
‘Disassociating myself? Disassociating? Do you think you’ll ever recover from your education?’
‘My point exactly: the last thing I need is any more of it. But look, Grandpa, from what Dad has been telling me—’
‘You shouldn’t believe a word he says. He’s a lawyer.’
‘He says you’ve spent your whole life upsetting people.’
‘That’s never been my intention. It’s just been an added bonus.’
‘Well, why stop now?’
‘It’s not that, it’s—’
‘You doubt your own beliefs. You’ve gone all timid.’
‘Timid? You’re joking, right? Just because I choose not to show you my draft.’
‘Take America—’
‘I’ve never been able to stomach the place. Why start now?’
‘What happens if America stops doing all those terrible things you say they do? What happens to the world?’
‘Peace and harmony and goodwill in our times.’ Ted licked at the froth on his glass. He wasn’t sure where Lea was taking this discussion. She was setting him up and he couldn’t follow her moves.
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